Tekken 3: Unsung Heroes
by MooNTeARZ
Summary: Prequel to my other stories: The King of Iron Fist Tournament 3 has just been announced. Patrick Farenelli enters the tournament to investigate the supernatural goings on. He'll have to rely on an old friend, and new ones to help. JINXXIAO,JULIAXOC
1. Chapter 1

Tekken 3: Unsung Heroes

Author's Note: Hey guys, I've been wanting to do this for a little while…a prequel of sorts to my other stories. This is about the Nephilim as well, so let me set the stage for you. This story takes place during the third Tekken Tournament (I'm placing the date around April 2000).

As some of you know, I write about Jamie Parker, the Nephilim. A young man gifted with supernatural speed, healing, and strength, to combat the supernatural forces that seem to follow the Tekken tournaments.

Jamie may be the latest Nephilim, but he comes from a very long lineage. He entered the fifth Iron Fist Tournament, the sixth, and the seventh. However, Jamie is not the first Nephilim to enter an Iron Fist Tournament.

There was another.

And his name was Patrick Farenelli.

Not much is known about Patrick…what is known is that he entered the Third Iron Fist tournament, and was killed by Ogre. But what of Patrick? What was he like? Did he make any friends during the tournament? What was the difference between him and Jamie Parker, the current Nephilim…well, read on, and find out.

Name: Patrick Anthony Farenelli

Age: Sixteen

Height: 5'8

Nationality: American, father is second generation Italian-American; his mother is a famous Italian actress.

Blood Type: B

Hometown: Born in Manhattan, currently resides in Phoenix Arizona

Eye Color: Brown.

Hair Color: Black, shaggy, and curly

Fighting Style: Patrick has no real fighting style to speak of, he used to play football, and wrestle at his high school…he uses his size, and brute strength to his advantage when facing the forces of darkness. If one had to give Patrick's style a name, perhaps the best way to describe it would simply be; he is a brawler.


	2. Chapter 2: Family Farenelli

Chapter One: The Family Farenelli

Phoenix Arizona, March 23, 2000

"You're not going to die," Angela Farenelli said to her son, Patrick, and it was not a question.

It was an order.

"Absolutely," Patrick replied, as he and his mother watched the valet load the back of the limo with Angela's beautifully matched luggage.

The trunk was already brimming full, Angela had a full day before her flight from the Phoenix airport to Palermo, Italy, but she had decided to spend the night at the Hilton, near the airport.

Angela had said that she had done this because she had an early flight in the morning, but Patrick knew that his mother couldn't wait to get the hell out of the US.

"Oh, don't be so melodramatic, it's unbecoming. I'll be back before you know it." Angela added, softening a little.

She smiled wistfully at Patrick, who was, after all, her only child. Somewhere in her cold, ambitious heart, she did truly love the son who had nearly ruined her figure.

Or so Patrick's father asserted.

Patrick wondered if he would still be alive when his mother decided to return to Phoenix. Patrick Farenelli was the Nephilim, and eventually he would die in the line of duty. It was a fact he had accepted along with the job, which had been thrust onto him about a year ago.

Patrick had accepted it, but not learned how to live with it. The very idea that his days were numbered had never occurred to him…until a man from the Via de Angelus, a group of people who worked with the Nephilim came, and informed him of his calling.

He had just turned fifteen when he found out…he was sixteen now, and like any boy his age, he was supposed to live forever.

_Mom, _Patrick wanted to say, _don't leave me, please, I'm scared._

The words hung in the air unspoken; Patrick would never have actually said those words…he was too macho.

Patrick's mother reached out to pull on an errant curl from his dark hair, tsking at her son's unkempt appearance and shaking her head.

Patrick and his mother stood in the cul de sac in front of their house, which was not, frankly, appropriate living quarters for his parent's occupations.

Patrick's father Anthony Farenelli was a highly successful real-estate agent from Manhattan. He had bought land in Phoenix for a great price, and decided to build a neighborhood on it.

To prove that the land was as amazing as he advertised, he had built a house of his own on the property, and for the last four years had been selling his property to many young (and frankly naïve) couples.

Angela had complained long and loud about Arizona…how it was too hot, how she missed the culture of Manhattan, or the beauty of her native Italy. The house itself was too small, too ordinary, and it didn't have enough room for all the live-in help she required: maid, sewing woman, cook, and butler.

"I am the most famous actress in my country," she reminded Patrick's father on a nearly daily basis, prodding him to move back to New York.

She would toss her glossy black hair, kept long and layered like Jennifer Aniston's character Rachel on _Friends_, and glare at him through heavy makeup.

"If the paparazzi saw me living in such…squalor, then-"

"You want to talk squalor? Then go back to that dump you called a home in Palermo!" Anthony would say through a gulp of booze.

Both of Patrick's parents drank a lot. Angela's favorite drinks were Cosmopolitans, just like Carrie Bradshaw on _Sex in the City_, Patrick's father drank gallons of single malt whisky.

It had been a mix of sadness and relief when Patrick had said good-bye to his father a month ago when he left for an open ended business trip to England, and three weeks later, just as Patrick predicted, his mother was escaping.

"It's getting late mom, you'll hit traffic." Patrick said to his mother, hiding his misery.

"Yes," His mother checked her lipstick from the compact in her purse, "Well, I'll see you soon."

Angela turned on her very high heels and blew an air kiss to her only son…truthfully Patrick would have loved to hug her…after all, he might not get another chance, but he decided not too…it would only make things more awkward.

Patrick trudged to the center of the cul de sac, out fitted in a black tank top, and a pair of baggy black ADDIDAS brand jogging pants, a vertical, white stripe ran up the sides of the pant legs. His mother hated the way he dressed now; particularly how long he'd let his hair get…Angela hated that, especially.

"I'll call you from Grandma's tomorrow night," Angela promised, her eyes glittering. "Or the next morning if we get in too late." High color gleamed in his cheeks.

_We? I'm sure she means everyone in the airplane. Not…anyone else in a special "we" sense. She's traveling alone_

"Say hi to her," Patrick requested. "To Grandma."

"Of course." His mother huffed, looking mildly insulted. But Patrick hardly ever saw his Italian relatives, and sometimes he wasn't sure if they remembered he was alive.

Angela's driver opened the door, and she slid in with the grace and elegance that caught the attention of a young businessman's heart.

"Mind Ms. Fernandez; I don't want her quitting on us."

Most of the staff Angela hired eventually quit…Patrick knew that most of time, it wasn't over him.

The car pulled away, Patrick waved halfheartedly at it. As if on cue, thunder rolled; then there was a flash across the horizon as rain began to fall.

Patrick sighed, and let the rain wash over him for a bit…his mother was right about the weather here…it was too hot, and the cool rain felt good on his exposed biceps and face.

The light drizzle began to steady, so Patrick walked back into house. The air conditioning kicked in, and a blast of recirculated air hit him in the face, and reminded him that summer was coming soon.

_And what are you going to do this summer? Oh yeah, fight demons, day in, day out…oh, unless I survive until the summer that is…_

He walked through the dimly lit, ranch style house, pausing at the 'fridge to grab a bottle of water, and an orange (Patrick's favorite fruit). He peeled the orange by the counter, and as he did Ms. Fernandez, the house keeper walked in, angrily balling up the sheets from his parent's bed.

"Hi Ms. Fernandez." Patrick said.

"Oh, hello Mr. Patrick." The housekeeper said warily.

"Do you need any help?"

"No, I'm sure you have more pressing matters to attend to." She said with thinly veiled sarcasm as she walked into the laundry room.

Patrick couldn't blame her…prior to his calling, he hadn't really treated Ms. Fernandez like a, you know…person.

He was about to walk into his room until Ms. Fernandez called to him from the roar of the washing machine.

"You have some mail Mr. Patrick, I left it in your room."

Patrick thanked her, and headed back to his room, he opened the door, and locked it behind him. His room was a typical affair for a boy his age. The walls were painted an eggshell white, and a navy blue carpet took up the floor.

His double bed stood by the window, and his navy blue sheets were tangled in a heap at the end of the bed…it seemed as if Ms. Fernandez hadn't been in his room yet.

Posters hung on his wall, the rapper Lil' Kim in a white bikini sitting in a provocative position, with her bedroom eyes glaring at him. Other posters surrounded his room, bands that he liked (Blink 182), and several Sports Illustrated posters of models in unlikely swimwear.

Patrick walked over to the computer and logged onto AOL, the screeching of the dial-up connection filled the room, as he walked into his private bathroom. He debated whether or not to take a shower…despite the rain still slick on his skin, he felt grimy, and with the combined force of the air conditioner, he was cold as well.

_Better not…you're just gonna get dirty again when you patrol…_

And so, here it was, a late Friday afternoon, and he had no plans…no social life…no friends…well, not anymore at least. This time last year, his cell phone would be ringing off the hook for invites to parties with his friends, or from girls who wanted desperately to go on a date with the handsome, star athlete, Patrick Farenelli.

At one time, Patrick was high school royalty, and he knew it. He was the star quarterback on his football team for the fall, a superb wrestler for the winter months, and an excellent soccer player in the spring.

All the girls wanted him, and all the guys wanted to be him…and with that knowledge, Patrick had gained a reputation as being the stereotypical arrogant, cocky, and rude jock. Some of his past exploits included beating up, and making fun of the nerdy guys, barking, or making rude gestures to the nerdy, or ugly girls, and walking around with a sense of complete entitlement.

He'd made dozens of people cry; he was a player, frequently dating two, or three girls at a time, and had, at one time, a love of drugs and alcohol that was steadily heading towards an addiction.

Patrick wasn't being conceited when he used to say he was one of the better looking guys at school…he supposed that even now, he still considered himself attractive.

Of Italian descent, Patrick possessed an attractive, olive colored skin tone. His eyes were big, and brown, they were what his mother called 'doe eyes'. His eyebrows were slightly thick, and on occasion, needed to be trimmed. Patrick's nose was slightly large and prominent, inherited from his father as a "Romanesque" nose…however, with his wide eyes, and full lips, the flaw only seemed to enhance his attraction.

Patrick's hair was very dark, and if left unchecked, would grow into shaggy curls. Those curls were prominent now, and rested against his forehead, and tickled his ears slightly. He used to keep his hair cut very short, and spiked with enough hair gel to leave a hole in the ozone layer…but after becoming the Nephilim, priorities change…

_Staying alive…yeah, a little bit more important…_

He hadn't shaved in a week, and black stubble was starting to appear…as were dark circles under his eyes, from nightly patrols.

If there was one thing that Patrick was slightly insecure about, it had always been his height…he was rather short, 5'8 to be exact…but he made up for it with his musculature. Years of dedicated training to his beloved sports had built Patrick an incredibly buff body.

True, he was only 5'8, but he was 178 pounds of pure muscle.

Deciding not to shower after all until later in the evening, Patrick left the bathroom and checked his email…nothing but junk advertising how he could build muscle, or increase the size of his penis…neither were things that Patrick had to worry about…he grinned at that, occasionally, his old self would resurface.

And then he remembered the letter he received. Actually, it wasn't so much of a letter as it was a packet, held together in a manila envelope. It reminded Patrick of the athletic scholarship dossiers he would receive in the male periodically.

It listed his address, but he had to furrow his brows as he read the return address.

"Mishima Zaibatsu…where the hell is that?" He muttered to himself.

His answer was directly below.

"Who the fuck do I know in Tokyo?"

As a child to very wealthy and successful parents, Patrick had come to terms that there would be people who knew him, whom he didn't know…but what business was the Mishima Zaibatsu? And what did they want?

"Dear **Patrick Faranelli**,

I, Heihachi Mishima, would like to formerly invite you to participate in the** King of Iron Fist Tournament III**. This is a fighting tournament to prove who is the best fighter in all the world. Do you think you have what it takes…"

Patrick read through the letter several times…his heart was hammering in his chest. A part of him had to laugh at how impersonal the letter sounded. It was obvious that every fighter in this tournament would get the same exact letter. He'd never seen his full name spelled out so many times on a paper.

Unfortunately, he had to wonder why he had been invited in the first place. Martial arts had never been Patrick's forte. He was a brawler, plain and simple, and he preferred to use his size, and strength against his foes, rather then weird kicks and punches.

Truly, his training as a Nephilim had made him garner his own style…and it had worked hadn't it? After all, he had stopped the Millennium Prophecies from coming true just a few months ago. How many Nephilim could say they saved all of existence, after only a year in the field?

Patrick still had a lot of questions…and he didn't know who to turn too. Both his parents were too busy, and as for the Via de Angelus…

As if on cue, his cell phone rang.

Patrick picked it up, and a calm, Scottish sounding voice flooded his ear.

"I suppose you've seen the letter."

"Yeah, I just read it." Patrick responded.

"Good. Meet me in the park by your neighborhood in twenty minutes…we have some things to discuss."

The phone conversation ended with a click on the other end…Patrick never liked talking to representatives of the Via de Angelus…he got the feeling that he was more of a weapon to them then an actual person.

Still, they'd have some answers for him…and most likely an assignment to go with it.

And honestly, Patrick hoped they would…because he already felt the bad vibes coming.

_Meanwhile, across town…_

The rain that had blanketed Patrick Farenelli's opulent neighborhood stretched itself across suburban Phoenix, and found itself in a typical, middle class area of town…however, while Patrick had ducked inside to quickly avoid the rain…another girl stood outside in it.

Rain, after all, was such a rarity, and this deserted climate needed it.

_It's hard to believe that this area used to be so green…so teeming with life._

The rain fell on her jeans, and on her baggy hooded sweatshirt...her hair, tied back in a bun, frizzed out from the sudden humidity and precipitation, but she didn't mind.

Her looks were something that she didn't have time for; how could she when her whole future resided on these next few years?

She would have liked to stay out longer, but she knew she should go inside…after all, she had a party to go to later tonight…and although she didn't care much about her appearance, a change of clothes would be nice.

As if reading her thoughts, a voice called from the front door.

"Julia! Are you out there?!"

"Coming Grandma!" She called.

Julia Chang turned, walked across the lawn, and entered the house.

"What were you doing out there my dear?" Her Grandmother asked. "Don't you have a party to get ready for?"

Julia smiled, and glanced at her Grandmother…well, adoptive grandmother, just like Michelle was her adopted mother.

"After all, it's not every day that someone gets invited to a world famous martial arts competition…just like your mother." Grandma said wistfully as she sat at the kitchen table.

Julia sat at the table, grasping the steaming mug of herbal tea that was left for her…the envelope to the Iron Fist Tournament lay on a pile between her and her grandmother.

"Michelle is in Japan too isn't she? Uncovering relics from a temple? Perhaps you'll see her?"

"Yeah," Julia added. "Maybe I will…"

Julia hadn't had the heart to tell the older woman that Michelle was supposed to be back two weeks ago; she hadn't come back, and Julia hadn't heard any word from her since then.

Michelle Chang was an archeologist; focused primarily on ancient Native American Civilizations…dating back years before the first white colonists "settled" on America's shores.

Michelle had gone off to Japan to investigate a rumor that ancient Native Americans had built ships and settled in Japan…if that were indeed true, then the understanding of Native American life would be completely blown out of the water.

But…Michelle hadn't come back.

And now Julia was worried…it wasn't like Michelle just to leave like that. Hopefully, now Julia was going to get some answers…she wasn't stupid however. She'd heard stories about the Iron Fist Tournament; Michelle had been in two of them. She'd heard whispered conversations between Michelle and her archeologist friend, a Greek, named Christopheles Helios.

From what Julia could gather, the Mishima Zaibatsu was something that needed to be avoided. Michelle had barely survived her last two trips to Tokyo…and it was strongly hinted that her friend Christopheles was killed by Heihachi Mishima.

This was just Michelle's theory, Chris's son, who was off in college at Oxford had no idea what killed his father. Julia had never met Dimitri Helios, but Michelle had said that he was a very nice boy.

Despite her adoptive mother's interest in archeology, Julia's interests lay more in the scientific field, more specifically, the environment. She had dreams of one day reforesting Arizona to make it the lush paradise it once was.

_Yeah; but dreams are just that…dreams…first I need to find out what happened to my mother…_

Julia had a supportive group of friends…who, once they found out about her admission into the Iron Fist Tournament, decided to take her out to see a movie, and then go to IHOP afterward.

Julia was excited; she didn't go out very often…a typical weekend for her dealt with her school projects, college applications, and her after school job teaching at a karate school.

She wasn't into the partying scene, primarily because she was never invited to go to one…she often said that she simply didn't have the time.

However, this was just an excuse, deep down, she would have liked to be accepted by her peers…but she was always known as the weird girl. Julia was the one passing out pamphlets on animal rights, or petitioning to protect certain landmarks from being bulldozed over to make room for more cookie cutter gated communities.

If this didn't alienate her from her classmates, then perhaps her appearance did as well. Julia was a pretty girl, with tan skin, and lovely, light brown hair. Her eyes were an attractive shade of green…and she actually had a nice body, thanks to constant martial arts training and gymnastics.

However, she always hid her hair in a bun, her eyes behind a pair of glasses, and her body in a pair of boring jeans, and baggy tops.

She was teased a lot in school…mostly by the mean girls, and some of the guys…one in particular used to make her cry on numerous occasions.

_Patrick Farenelli…what ever happened to him…_

The sad thing was, that at one time, Julia had a huge, and hopeless crush on the unattainable popular boy. The two had known each other since Patrick first moved to Phoenix in the seventh grade…and after years of being invisible to Patrick, Julia decided that she would let him know how she felt.

In freshmen year, she had written him a poem, and asked him to Homecoming. Patrick had completely humiliated her by reading the poem aloud in their math class much to the raucous encouragement of all his jock friends.

Humiliated, Julia had run out of the class in tears…this set the precedent for the rest of her high school social career. But it didn't matter now, that was two years ago, and Julia was very happy with her high school career thank you very much.

She was one of the top in her class, had a bunch of supportive and unique friends, and now, was heading on a trip to Tokyo to participate in a martial arts tournament.

And Patrick…

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen." Julia muttered, as she walked into her room.

Almost over night, his popularity had completely disappeared…she didn't know what had happened to him, but all of a sudden his friends had left him, he had stopped dressing in all of his Abercrombie outfits, and he looked so tired.

Some nights, on the rare occasions she did go out, she would see Patrick around…and once, she could have sworn he was holding a…dagger or something!

She couldn't dwell on it for very much longer however, because suddenly, the doorbell rang. Her friends had come!

"I'm coming!" Julia called excitedly a she ran from her room.

And at least, for the moment, Julia Chang forgot about her troubles…they would all come rushing back to her soon enough.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Two: Sleight of Hand

The rain had let up slightly as Patrick walked towards the park. The neighborhood was in a sort of vertical, uppercase "I" shape, with the park meeting in the middle. While the neighborhood was still under construction, the park itself was finished.

Patrick's father had made the park one of the main focal points in attracting buyers, and it had worked. A promenade lined the outer walkway, and with it's tree lined path, made it ideal for joggers, dog walkers, and cyclists.

The overall layout of the park was in a giant circle, within the circle were a soccer field, a tennis and basketball court, and a playground for the children. Standing underneath a shaded pavilion was a middle aged man dressed in a combination of khaki and tweed.

Cardinal O'Connell, of the Via de Angelus.

Once Patrick saw him, he began to jog towards him, both in an effort to get out of the rain, and to get some questions answered.

"Ah, so nice to see you again Mr. Farenelli." O' Connell quipped. "I was thinking you wouldn't show; you had me waiting for twenty minutes."

"Sorry," Patrick grumbled as he walked towards the pavilion. "I couldn't find my car keys."

The excuse was lame, honestly, Patrick had gotten to the park as fast as he could, he had no idea that the cardinal had been waiting that long…truthfully; he had left as soon as he ended the call.

"I wonder if we should test your speed again to make sure that your skills are on par with that of an average Nephilim."

_Average Nephilim…there's an oxymoron if I've ever heard one…_

"No trouble…it's just, the rain." Patrick responded. "Anyway, you said you had some answers right? Let's hear them."

"I strongly hope that you are continuing your training regimen Patrick; the powers that God has bestowed upon you are entirely useless unless you know how to use them."

"I do train sir," Patrick retorted with an edge to his voice. The Nephilim crossed his muscular arms across his broad chest. "After all, it's the only 'normal' thing I have in my life left."

"I do hope you're still not referring to the Millennium Prophecies Mr. Farenelli," Cardinal O' Connell cautioned.

"I saved the universe from that…that monster…I've only been the Nephilim for a year…and no one thought I could stop it, but I did!" Patrick retorted.

"That is not what I'm talking about and you know it." The Cardinal argued.

"The Prophecies…they…they lied…" Patrick muttered, glancing away.

"No. You assumed that stopping The Harbinger would end the Nephilim line-"

"It said that the world would enter a golden age, and the forces of darkness would be pushed back; that…that the Nephilim could…could finally rest!" Patrick blurted out.

"You put your faith in a…a whim Patrick!" The Cardinal said angrily. "One of the first rules of prophecies are that they are very tricky creatures. You can't take everything that they say literally." O 'Connell softened a little. "A Nephilim's work is never done Patrick. This is your destiny."

"…until I die right? Then another gets called, and another, and another." Patrick added.

"Patrick, you have a destiny…a chosen path. How many people your age can say that?" O' Connell asked gently.

_I don't want a destiny…I want a future…_

"Um," Patrick coughed, clearing his throat. "You…you said you had some answers…about the Iron Fist Tournament?"

"Yes. We heard that you would be invited Patrick."

"Why? Why would Mr. Mishima invite me? I'm not even a fighter; I don't know any martial arts." Patrick asked as he sat on the table of a bench.

"It's because he knows of your…abilities Patrick." O'Connell advised.

"What?" Patrick asked, looking up at the cardinal in shock. "How?"

"Heihachi Mishima is a powerful man Patrick. He knows much of this world…even of the demon realm."

"And the Nephilim? He knows of them too?"

"After World War II we had dispatched a Nephilim to protect his father Jinpachi, his name was Toshio Iwamura. Heihachi had just began to get involved in the occult at the time. He involved his father in a ritual that mutated him into an uncontrollable monster. Unable to control his father, Heihachi locked Jinpachi underground in a sacred temple. Heihachi locked Toshio in the chamber with his father, where, Jinpachi subsequently killed him."

"…oh…"

"Heihachi has been researching something. From what we can gather it has to do with resurrecting a very…very powerful demon." O' Connell stated.

"Shit…what'll it do?" Patrick asked.

"It's an Aztec blood god apparently. And it can be controlled with a certain amulet. If it is to rise, it will slaughter the masses, and invite it's other gods to wander this plane of existence."

"But why would Heihachi invite me to this tournament then? I'm supposed to stop these things." Patrick wondered aloud.

"As most Aztec gods require, many sacrifices need to be made before it becomes invoked. Heihachi invited you into this tournament because if one sacrifices a Nephilim, and offers up his blood, then the one who invokes this god will be given full command of it."

"But it hasn't been summoned yet? I can still stop this ritual right?" Patrick asked.

"This is where we can use your invitation to our advantage." O' Connell turned to Patrick. "You will enter the tournament, and stay long enough to gather all the information that you need to put a stop to all of this. This god is nearly indestructible Patrick, and if you fail…well…let's just say that it would be a bad turn for humanity."

Patrick chuckled lightly, and ran his hands through his rain slicked hair.

"So, I'm walking into a trap is what you're saying," He sighed and stood up. "So, does this demon have a name?"

"According to the texts I've found…the only name we can give him is…Ogre."

"Ogre, huh?" Patrick said. "Not the most original name I've heard of."

"Your plane leaves for Tokyo leaves next Friday…I suggest you get ready."

"Yeah I know…I'm already too keyed up to rest right now…I need to take my aggression out on something of a demonic nature." Patrick stated, as he stretched, and bounced lightly on the balls of his feet.

"My sources inform me that there has been some activity by the Indian Trails lately…the evidence suggests zombies." O' Connell offered.

"Just what I was hoping for," Patrick turned and glanced at the cardinal. "Punching bags that shuffle."

"Be careful; remember what we taught you about zombies-"

"Yeah, I remember," Patrick interrupted. "Don't take on the groups; don't let them swarm on you…I got it, I got it." Patrick paused, and then added. "Hey, you wanna come? Could be fun?"

O' Connell declined the offer, saying that he had another flight to catch…it seemed as if everyone was flying away from Patrick lately. And so, he bid Cardinal O' Connell good bye, and went off to his house to grab a jacket…and some weapons.

After all, rule number 4 in the handbook stated: A Good Nephilim is always prepared.

_(New Scene)_

The Indian Trails were about a ten minute hike from Patrick's neighborhood. They resided atop a rather large hill, and were rumored to be littered with the bodies of ancient Native Americans. Hikers tended to follow the concrete path that was given to them; and about every half mile or so, rest stops opened up off to the side with benches, or some kind of plaque or sculpture explaining the history of the place.

Patrick had parked his car at the parking lot, and opened the fake bottom of his trunk to grab a few weapons; he ended up taking a rather wicked looking sword, and a small dagger.

He slung the sword across his back, and kept the dagger and flamethrower in a special holster around his hips.

A million stars lit up the night sky, but otherwise, the trails were completely pitch black. For a normal human, this would cause distraction, but with his Nephilim sight, Patrick could navigate the trails without much difficulty.

Outfitted still in his black jogging pants, and black tank top, Patrick had added a light, windbreaker to the ensemble…mostly in an attempt to keep the rain off his skin (and surprise, the jacket was also black).

The Nephilim had been on these Indian Trails for the better part of an hour and a half, and already, he had faced, and shattered, about ten zombies. He jogged through a clearing that was off the trail and found himself face to face with a group of five or so of the shambling undead.

These corpses were little more then skeletons now, with tattered ropes of flesh, hanging on their skeletal frames like rags on a homeless person. Despite the lack of eyes, they all turned towards Patrick, and uttered a dry, raspy, growl.

"C'mon," Patrick began with his arms raised. "You guys wanna taste? Grade A American high school boy…come and get it!"

Arms raised they came towards Patrick, who, impulsively leapt into the fray. While in the air, he raised a fist, and once he headed towards the first zombie, he rammed it into the creature's brittle skull.

_Houston…we've made contact…_

Stumbling, the zombie shambled backwards, but not before Patrick landed another blow, shattering the creature's dusty rib cage. With no torso, the creature's lower half, the remainder of it's skull, and it's arms clattered to the ground in a heap.

Before Patrick could turn to the next one, another zombie lashed it's arms out, and scratched through the sleeve of his jacket. Grunting with surprise, Patrick roughly shoved the creature away from him, before closing the distance with a front kick into it's torso, and finishing with a right cross to the zombie's head.

Focusing all of his strength into the punch the head ricocheted off it's neck and landed in patch of dry weeds somewhere…without it's head, the rest of the body tumbled to the ground.

Quickly, another zombie latched onto Patrick's shoulders, and with steely strength, tried to pull the Nephilim towards its clacking jaws.

"NO!!" Patrick groaned.

Focusing all of his strength, Patrick spun around, the creature's arms with it. For a second, Patrick lost his composure (_Oh god, they're still on me!)_, but he held on. With the turn, he unsheathed his sword and swung it like a baseball bat…quickly decapitating the remaining three zombies with it.

And so, Patrick stood, marveling at the carnage around him, the piles of dusty bones littered the ground, as he caught his breath. The entire fight couldn't have taken more then a minute; but they always felt as if they passed in an eternity.

They say that when a Nephilim fights, it looks like just a blur attacking something…he really wished he could see something like that, it was kind of cool to thing he was faster then The Flash.

When he was younger Patrick used to want nothing more then to have super powers like the heroes he idolized in the comic books he read…and now he had them, and more then 75 percent of himself wished he could take them back, but at times like these…when he stood victorious over his enemies.

"It feels good to be me." Patrick said with a grin.

The Nephilim looked ahead, and sprinted towards a small hill to gain a better view of the surrounding area. After a set of bounding leaps Patrick had scaled the hill, and began to survey the area.

All Nephilim had an inherent ability to sense demonic presence, it helped make nightly patrols way more efficient. Demons gave off a faint smell, or a vibe, that Nephilim were naturally psychically in tune to.

And Patrick wasn't feeling anymore zombie vibes…which was good, because all of that zombie bashing made him feel hungry.

"Right now, I could seriously go for some pancakes…and mozzarella sticks, while simultaneously eating an omelet." He muttered to himself.

Patrick checked his watch, which read that it was 11:45 PM. However, finding quality food at this hour would have to wait, because suddenly, Patrick's "Nephilim sense" began to tingle, and he felt a presence deeper within the trails.

He turned towards the direction of the sense…and found it to be in the center of the Indian Trails…more specifically at the edge of a rather steep hill. Patrick had been to this section many times both as a mortal at parties, and as a Nephilim on patrol.

The presence didn't feel demonic; it actually felt human…however the familiar sense of evil clung to it…and, oddly, a sense of coldness as well. It didn't take Patrick long to hone in on the presence…and it worried him slightly that whoever this, didn't seem too keen on leaving the area; in fact, Patrick got the idea that whoever this was, wanted him there.

And so Patrick arrived at the area, moving at speeds that could be rivaled to a cheetah; once he entered the clearing, he stopped and checked his surroundings.

The summit of the Indian Trails held a small sitting area, where people could sit at and gaze at the beautiful view of Phoenix, that was displayed for them. The best times to come up here were at sunset and at night (Patrick was never up early enough to come at sunrise).

The lights from the city twinkled around him like glistening diamonds, and the faint roar of traffic could be heard from the streets below.

"So, this is the latest Nephilim." A cold voice called from the shadows.

Quickly, Patrick turned and glanced in the voice's direction.

"Please, allow me to introduce myself; I am a…liaison of Heihachi Mishima. I'm here to formally welcome you to the Iron Fist Tournament."

"That's nice of you," Patrick responded evenly. "Do all the other fighter's get the same treatment?"

"No," The voice cackled. "But, I'm being rude, please allow me to introduce myself; I am Doctor Abel."

From the shadowy recesses of the woods came a tall, gaunt looking man. He had sallow, age spotted skin, and he walked with a slight hunch to his frame.

"Hey," Patrick said warily as he sized the enemy up.

Doctor Abel looked like a strong breeze could knock him down. Patrick knew that he could easily take the scientist down in a physical fight…but logic dictated that Abel had another trick up his sleeve.

"Not very articulate are we? Well, what can one expect when all the gifts and powers of a Nephilim are wasted on…what is it the children are saying these days? Oh yes, a 'jock'"

Abel spat the word "jock" out of his mouth like it was the most offensive thing he could say to anyone.

"It was you wasn't it," Patrick began to deduce. "You raised those zombies didn't you…all to get me over here, why?"

"I told you, to formally welcome you."

"Uh huh; this jock isn't as dumb as he looks Abel. What? Did you want to test me for Heihachi Mishima? Well, I passed, so tell him that his life insurance policies better be paid off!"

"Oh, did I not tell you? We have one more experiment to test you with." Abel said with mock shock.

Suddenly, out of the trees came a man. He was very tall, with short blonde hair clipped in a Mohawk. His eyes were a piercing blue, and he was very, very, very muscular.

"Patrick, meet JACK." Abel introduced.

Before Patrick could figure out what to say next, JACK screamed, the noise sounded unnaturally shrill and mechanical, somewhat like what a cow might sound like in a slaughter house. Suddenly, JACK's well muscled arms began to separate, and two wicked looking chain guns emerged.

_Oh shit…a robot?!_

Patrick had been trained on facing numerous demons and monsters…but never robots…and particularly, ones with very large guns attached to their arms! Before Patrick could begin to fight, the guns began to whirl at a blistering pace, and bullets began to fly.

Fighting was hopeless…what mattered now was escape. Everything that the bullets touched were blown to pieces…the actual bullets looked about as thick as a child's arm, and although Patrick ran as fast as he could, the hail of bullets were only a millisecond behind him.

Escape came to Patrick in the form of the hill…he'd have to jump off of it, and hope that it didn't kill him. Surely Nephilim survived falls like these all the time right? Patrick leapt from the summit, and as he did, he cried out in agony as one of the bullets grazed his torso.

He hit the hill with a thud, landing on his butt, and he kept rolling down, his vision whipping the dark night around him like a spin cycle. As logic would dictate, he managed to hit almost every cactus patch, and pebble on his descent.

After what seemed like an eternity, the hill finally leveled off, but at the speed he was going his body flew off a sloping rock, launching his body into the air…before landing with a thud against a dumpster.

Patrick grunted on impact, and he dizzly, attempted to stand. Through spinning vision and uneven balance he made a mental check of his wounds. His side was bleeding rather heavily from the bullet, but the blood wound was already healing, in another five minutes it should be fine.

As for the other various scratches and scrapes…they too would heal soon, his ass still hurt, but that was more of a discomfort then any mortal injury.

_Nothing a shower shouldn't fix…_

Patrick glanced up at the hill and waited for another attack, all the while realizing that his weapons were lost somewhere on that hill, and his car was waiting for him still in the park.

After a few minutes of waiting, Patrick began to realize that Abel and his Terminator rip-off weren't coming. The mad scientist had indeed kept his word when he said that this was merely a test.

"That's new…a psychopath that keeps their word; what kind of wackos does this tournament attract anyway?" Patrick asked himself.

Sighing, Patrick decided to see which parking lot he had managed to find himself in, and after a few seconds discovered that he was at an IHOP. As if on cue, his stomach rumbled, and he remembered his cravings of pancakes, mozzarella sticks, and an omelet…and, a glass of water wouldn't be so bad either.

Realizing that he probably looked like hell, he hoped that IHOP wouldn't be too busy.

_Yeah right, midnight on a Friday? C'mon Farenelli, you of all people should know that it's gonna be packed…it used to be one of your hangouts when you'd get "drunk munchies"._

Still, Patrick did not care. He had saved countless hikers and lovers by stomping those zombies, and he'd been shot at…he deserved a pancake or two.

"Happy goddamn Friday…" He grumbled as he entered the restaurant.

(New Scene)

From her booth at the IHOP Julia could have sworn she heard a loud "Bang" from the dumpster. She and her group of friends were sitting towards the back by the window; but when she turned, she couldn't find anything.

_Must be some stray cats or something…_

Immediately she dipped back into the conversation that she and her friends were having.

"Anyway, that James Franco guy was so hot!" Emily proclaimed.

"I know, and did you see the kiss at the end…oh, it was so romantic." Tara agreed.

"I thought it was gross when the girl took her socks off and she had that disgusting rash!" Greg added.

Julia's friends had taken her to see some teenage romantic comedy. It wasn't a movie she was particularly dying to see, but it meant a lot to her friends so she kept her mouth shut.

These were the friends that had been with her through middle school and most of her high school career. They truly were her best friends…they had all bonded because they were the ones who were always made fun of.

They were the ones who didn't agree with the vast majority of their peers, they voiced their opinions, and their interests were broader then simply drinking beer and having sex.

_Which I've never, ever done…I haven't even kissed a boy yet!_

"What did you think Jules?" Tara asked.

"Huh?" Julia said, snapping back to reality.

"Earth to Julia." Greg said jovially.

"Guys, leave her alone," Emily scolded gently. "She's got a lot on her mind…it's not every day you get invited to Tokyo."

"Yeah, it's crazy…it's like it's happening so fast." Julia agreed.

"Oh, I bet there're going to be all sorts of cute Japanese guys there." Greg gushed.

"Geez Greg, not everyone there is going to be like all those comic books you read." Tara said.

"First of all, it's called manga; and second…screw you!" Greg retorted gently.

"Plus, I'll be going to Mishima High School for the rest of the semester." Julia added optimistically. "That'll look great on my college applications…I mean, it's one of the best schools in the world!"

Everyone laughed…only Julia would be thrilled that she'd have to go to school while entering her tournament.

"Well I hope you show those fighters what nerd power really is!" Emily laughed.

"Oh, you know it!" Julia added with a smile.

"You'll really show those brain dead jocks that we nerds can really kick ass!" Tara agreed.

"Ugh," Greg rolled his eyes. "Speaking of brain dead jocks…"

Emerging from the bathroom, wearing a black tank top, and black jogging pants, came Patrick Farenelli; and to be honest, he looked like absolute shit.

His body was a mess of scratches and scrapes, and a dark substance caked the side of his shirt. The tank top itself had a hole on the side about the size of a nickel. Dirt was plastered onto his sweat stained shoulders, arms and face, and his hair hung lank and damp with sweat.

"What in the hell is he doing here," Tara asked in mock shock. "And without his Abercrombie clothes?"

"Yeah," Emily agreed. "Doesn't that give grounds for expulsion among the 'popular kids'?"

Julia didn't say anything, she was just in shock with his general appearance. Julia wasn't shallow by any means, and she never judged anyone on appearance, but it looked as if Patrick had just gotten out of the fight of his life…and she began to wonder if this was part of the strange lifestyle he had adopted over the past year.

The waitress took Patrick to his booth, where he asked in a scratchy voice for a glass of water, a plate of pancakes, and mozzarella sticks. Soon his meal was brought to him, and he ate quickly, and in silence.

"Hey," Tara piped up. "Maybe you can meet your mom over there."

"Yeah, she's in Japan right? I'm sure you'll see her…y'know Ms. Chang's always been super protective of you." Emily added.

"Yeah, don't worry Jules; you know how you're mom gets once she gets tied up on a project." Greg affirmed.

"Yeah, I'm sure you guys are right." Julia said, she wanted to believe them…she hoped it were true…but more then a small part of her thought otherwise.

"So…one billion dollars at stake; what're you gonna do with all that prize money you win?" Greg asked. "Hopefully you'll remember that I've been your best and oldest friend."

Everyone laughed at that, and Julia hit Greg playfully.

"I've actually forgotten about the prize money…I don't know what I'll do exactly…but I'd like to put it to good use. I really want to do something for the environment, particularly here."

"Are you talking about the Iron Fist Tournament?" A voice asked from the booth in front of Julia.

Julia and her friends turned to see Patrick staring at them.

"Uh…yeah?" Tara asked. "What about it?"

"I was asking her." Patrick retorted.

"Yes…I mean, yeah, that's what we're talking about." Julia responded awkwardly.

"So Heihachi Mishima invited you too huh?" Patrick asked.

"Yeah, because she's a martial arts expert." Emily replied.

"Wait; you mean they invited you?" Greg scoffed. "What the hell are you gonna do? Roll around on a gym mat with another guy? And you made fun of me for being gay!"

At first, being alienated by his peers had really hurt Patrick; it still did to a point, but when his former victims of humiliation would make fun of him, the Nephilim actually found it funny…and he wondered how in the hell he had gotten by for so many years treating people the way he did.

Patrick responded with a half grin, and a chuckle.

"Okay, well I'll see you there Chang." He picked up his bill, and walked to the register to pay, before adding a "good evening" to the small party.

"…that was weird…" Tara said, breaking the tension.

"Ugh, tell me about it. I can't believe you used to have a crush on that guy Julia." Emily added.

"Yeah…I know…" Julia agreed.

She watched Patrick Farenelli leave, and as she did she couldn't help but wonder if it was fate or the spirits putting the two of them together at this tournament…but whatever it was, she knew there was more to The Iron Fist Tournament then met the eye…and she was going to find out one way or another.

Author's Note: Okay, so what do you think of my prequel so far? Read and review please, I'd like some feedback on what I'm doing right/wrong, so please, let me know!


	4. Chapter 4: Touch Down

Touchdown

"Attention folks, this is your captain speaking. Just letting you know that we will begin our touchdown in twenty minutes. Welcome to Tokyo."

Patrick's heart hammered in his chest, and he felt a sense of anticipation wash over him…and, could it be, nervousness?

All of these people that he'd be competing against were the greatest fighter's in the world. Heihachi Mishima had spared no expense in finding only the best of the best for this tournament.

Over the past week Patrick had been researching the Mishima Zaibatsu, and the Iron Fist Tournament itself. Apparently, the Iron Fist Tournament (or "Tekken Tournament" as the Japanese had nicknamed it) was as big as the Super Bowl was in America.

The previous two tournaments held been held in the late '70's and early '80's; Heihachi Mishima, had reportedly stopped the tournaments after the tragic death of his son Kazuya, who had "accidentally" fallen into a volcano.

At the end of the second tournament two other competitors had mysteriously vanished as well. A 23 year old woman named Jun Kazama, and a 25 year old man named Baek.

However, Heihachi had called this new tournament, after a nearly twenty year hiatus, because he "owed it to the loyal fans of 'real' martial arts"

_Yeah…you're a real class act Mr. Mishima._

Patrick supposed that if Heihachi had said he needed plenty of sacrifices to resurrect an ancient blood god to bring hell on earth, then no one would come.

Plus, it would be a bad marketing move.

And apparently, these Iron Fist Tournaments were a huge marketing gimic. Already, Patrick had to sign release form after release form lending his voice, name, face, and (let's face it) soul over to the Mishima Zaibatsu.

Pretty soon Patrick Farenelli would have his own poster, lunch box, endorsement deals, and even an action figure. There was a rumor that Heihachi was going to spring for a video game as well, but Patrick would believe it when he saw it.

Patrick's parents were elated after they found out about his "good news"…it took them a day and a half to call him back; usually they wouldn't call him until three days after they left.

When his mother called him she congratulated him, and then quickly updated her son about the goings on in her life. Apparently, while visiting Grandma, she had gotten an endorsement deal to be the new face of an Italian cosmetic company…she'd be shooting a series of commercials and would be gone for a month.

But she was sure that Patrick would do just fine.

She would say the same non committal phrase right before one of Patrick's football games or wrestling matches.

As for his father, he wanted nothing more then to come home to say goodbye to Patrick personally, but he had taken a client while in England, and wanted to show him some property. This client was supposed to be a young, boxing prodigy, who was slated to become the new middleweight champion.

Patrick couldn't remember the full name…Steve something or other. All he knew was that his father had promised to bring his son a signed photo of this Steve person, and that, apparently, he and Patrick had a lot in common.

School was another situation entirely. Once Sagebrush High had figured out that not one, but two of their students were entering a world famous martial arts tournament…they did not hesitate embarrassing Patrick and Julia, by holding a huge ceremony in front of all the students, teachers, and parents, in the gym…and demanding a speech.

Still, it was hard for Patrick to play the part of a grateful, and excited young man when he knew that this whole thing was a trap. He had wanted to warn Julia…but warn her of what exactly?

_Hey Julia got a minute? Just lettin' you know that if you go this tournament then you'll probably end up as a blood sacrifice…unless I can protect you, oh, and the rest of Tokyo…by the way, did I forget to mention that I'm a Nephilim? That's a half human half angel hybrid who are sworn to protect humanity. There's only one of us…and we usually don't live to see 18, or even 17 for that matter. Well, I'm late for Chem. See ya later._

No…that wouldn't do at all.

The flight to Tokyo had taken 22 hours…during that time Patrick had slept, periodically being awakened by a few hot stewardesses offering him peanuts and some rather horrible airline food. He had also sat through about three in flight movies, and attempted to read the cheap paperback novel he had bought at the airport.

The flight had been pretty smooth; the Nephilim had brought his CD player, and a few of his favorite CD's. Currently, Led Zeppelin's "Whole Lotta Love" blared through his headphones, providing a background soundtrack as he gazed at the twinkling cityscape that was Tokyo Japan.

Patrick had never been here before, and he was amazed that at this hour, 2:30 in the morning, the city was still an incredibly bustling metropolis. The plane touched down smoothly, and Patrick stretched his legs.

He reveled in the simple act of stretching his tired and cramped limbs as he gathered his things from the overhead compartment and left the plane.

_New Scene…_

Narita Airport was huge, and despite the hour, was still bustling and packed. The Japanese culture had little use for personal space, and Patrick was finding it somewhat hard to navigate with so many people bumping into him.

Still, the Nephilim managed to make his way to the baggage claim, which was even more packed then the airport terminals.

From what Patrick could deduce, planes carrying members of the Iron Fist Tournament had been arriving intermittently all through the day and night from all over the globe. While waiting for his bags, Patrick glanced around, and found that he could probably pick out the other fighters in the crowd.

One man was wearing a pair of skin tight white jeans, cowboy boots, and a button up flannel shirt over his bulging muscles…and, a leopard mask that was fixed in a perpetual snarl. He looked like he would be a Mexican masked wrestler; Patrick had been to a _luchadora _fight once before, and had enjoyed it.

Another man, arguing with someone behind customer service looked to be about Patrick's own age. He had longish hair, dyed an awful, fire engine red. He was wearing skin tight jeans, biker boots, and a tight, dark purple, sleeveless t-shirt. Perched atop his forehead was a pair of goggles that looked vaguely like the ones that you wore in chemistry class.

Leaving the airport, and seeming to enjoy the mob of paparazzi outside was a rather pretty looking posh woman with porcelain skin, bobbed brown hair, and vibrant green eyes. Despite the late hour (or was it early?) she looked incredibly put together in a red, form fitting Chinese skirt, and matching red pumps, she looked more suited for the runway then checking into a hotel.

Patrick suddenly felt very self conscious in his black fleece pull over, and baggy jeans. His mother would be horrified to know that her son looked like a bum in front of all of the glittering cameras, but Patrick was way too tired to care.

Fighting through the crowd at baggage claim, the Nephilim grabbed his two duffel bags and headed outside the airport…and into the blinding lights of the paparazzi.

_New Scene_

Forrest Law had been too nervous to sleep, here it was practically four in the morning and he was still tossing and turning. He couldn't believe that he was here, participating in the same tournament that, eighteen years ago, his own father was also in.

He also couldn't believe that he was here, in a tournament where not one, but three former competitors died. Well, at least that's what his father Marshall, and his "Uncle" Paul had been saying.

Ever since he was old enough to comprehend, he'd hear hushed conversations between his father, and his father's best friend about the Iron Fist Tournaments…and they didn't sound too good. Heihachi Mishima bent on world domination, a…god…of fighting named Toshin…and the titanic battle between Kazuya and Heihachi that ended with the younger Mishima plummeting into a volcano.

Honestly, it sounded like a half assed plot devised from a lame fighting game…it couldn't be real though, could it? Forrest was no Dana Scully, but he was pretty sure that this tournament wouldn't turn about to like an episode of the X-Files.

So why couldn't he sleep?

The trip over to the Mishima Hotel wasn't a bad one, he only lived twenty minutes away in Mushashino City (a suburb of Tokyo), and he could have stayed at home if he wanted to…but things with his dad weren't going so well.

Forrest and Marshall never really had a close relationship anyway, but lately it had all come to a head when Forrest admitted to his father that he didn't want to run the dojo after high school.

That, among other things, erupted in a huge fight that nearly destroyed the dojo and had Forrest living with his mother for the last week. Marshall had criticized Forrest by saying. "How is gonna look for me that my son, the head instructor, doesn't want to continue in his father's footsteps?!"

To which Forrest replied; "You just want me to run this place until you hit it big as a chef…which will never happen, so you want to make sure that I run this backup gig for you when you fail!"

The retort was hurtful, but Forrest meant it…after the fight, Marshall kicked Forrest out, and he'd been living with his mother ever since. Apparently, while Forrest was gone, Marshall had gotten in a drunken fight which resulted in him breaking a leg…and now, for whatever reason, Forrest decided to take his father's place in the tournament.

Forrest supposed it would be a last hurrah of sorts. He looked at it the way alcoholics look at going to AA, that they would have one last night of alcohol fueled debauchery before they commit to being sober.

Forrest had dreams; he wanted to go to fashion school after high school to become a designer. He may be young (He just turned 15) but he knew what he wanted, his mother supported him, even Uncle Paul supported him, so why couldn't his father?

Martial arts were always going to be a part of his life; but they weren't going to be all of his life, despite what his father might think. In fact, deep down, the reason he had entered this tournament was to try and bridge the gap between he and his father…maybe he could still be a good son and appease his father; after that perhaps his dad would finally lay off, and give him the respect that he deserved.

Suddenly, the inky darkness of the room gave way to blinding light as the door opened.

"Ah," Forrest groaned instinctively as the harsh light flooded his vision.

"Whoa, I'm sorry. I didn't know I had a roommate." The light quickly turned off.

Forrest compromised by turning on the softer light of the lamp by the bedside table. Standing in the threshold of the room stood a short young man, who looked a year or two older then Forrest himself.

He was wearing a slightly oversized black, fleece pullover, and baggy blue jeans. Dark curls escaped from the backwards baseball cap, and a pair of wrap around headphones were placed around his neck. Handsome, in a popular jock sort of way, Forrest's roommate's big brown eyes were taking in the room, before finally settling on his roommate lying in the bed.

"Are you…English?" Forrest asked groggily.

"Close," Patrick said with a grin, revealing white, perfect teeth. "I'm American…my mom and dad are Italian though."

Forrest moved to sit up as Patrick put his stuff down, and crossed the room with the grace of a practiced athlete.

"I'm Patrick…Patrick Farenelli."

"Forrest Law; but everybody calls me Forrest."

"That's cool," Patrick said as he flopped on the remaining bed by the window.

The room lapsed into a comfortable silence as Patrick took in the surrounding room. It was the standard size of any hotel room, with two queen beds, a small table chairs, and a kitchenette. A door to the left of the entranceway led to a standard sized hotel bathroom, and the room featured two closets, one by the entrance, and one by Forrest's bed.

Before the silence became awkward, Patrick broke the ice.

"So Forrest, call me crazy but has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like…"

"Bruce Lee?" Forrest interrupted with a grin. "Yeah, everyone says that about my dad too." He blushed as he brushed a hand through his sleep tousled hair.

"It's pretty cool though; bet it gets you plenty of girls." Patrick replied.

"Heh…" Forrest trailed off with a laugh. "So, have you ever been to Japan before?"

"No, I've visited Italy a couple of times with my mom, but that's about it." Patrick said. "This is kinda like another world to me; I don't mean to sound like a typical dumbass American but it's true…I feel so out of place here."

"Don't worry, I'll help you." Forrest said with a grin. "I guess you're going to go to Mishima High too huh?"

"Uh, yeah actually…start on Monday." Patrick replied. "I'll be finishing my junior year here, you?"

"I'll be done with ninth grade at the end of this semester; don't worry, after orientation I'll help you figure out where you need to go and stuff."

"Thanks man, I'd appreciate that."

"How do you say? It's no problem." Forrest said.

"Well, it's kinda late Forrest, I think I'm going to go bed." Patrick said.

Suddenly, the Nephilim realized how tired he really was…so tired in fact that Patrick didn't even take off his shoes before putting his head on the pillow…just as he was about to fall asleep he heard Forrest say something from the other bd.

"Patrick?"

"Nmmph?"

"If…when we start up school and you don't want to talk to me anymore…I…I understand."

"…what Forrest?" Patrick asked groggily.

"Nothing." He replied.

_What did he mean by that…oh well, I'm tired…so ti-_

The Nephilim didn't even finish his thought before he fell into a deep, deep sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five: The Promise

A/N: Hey, I think this story's startin' to catch on! Getting' a few reviews woot! Thanks to Seungreisan, and others; please keep up those reviews.

_It was hot, sweltering even…his breath came out in ragged clumps as the air he placed in his lungs had the consistency of maple syrup. He flicked a few sweat stained strands from his sweat plastered forehead and ran through the lush jungle._

_He had never been here before, and yet he seemed to know exactly where he was going. He hopped over streams, jumped over rocks, and crashed through underbrush…he was hurrying, he had to hurry, for if he were to fail then…_

_No, he wouldn't think of it; he was the Nephilim, lives depended on him, he needed to press on…and he did, and found himself at the threshold of an ancient looking temple._

_The Nephilim didn't know a lot about ancient cultures, but he knew that this was an Aztec Temple. Bodies littered the ground, twisted and mashed into bloody pulps that looked vaguely human._

"_I'm too late…" He muttered horrified._

_He was scared but that didn't matter anymore, the world was on brink of going to hell and he was going to stop it._

_Patrick Farenelli ran into the temple, blood ran in rivulets down the tiled floor. The only illumination came from stone statues that vaguely resembled dragons…they were spouting flames, and the temple itself seemed as hot as the very fires hell. _

_The humidity mixed with the stench of blood and decay made Patrick feel queasy…more bodies littered the ground…but towards the end of the temple on a raised dais were more blood stained bodies._

"_No…" Patrick shouted._

_He knew who they were; they were people he knew, people he…_

_And suddenly, a roar emanated from behind him. Patrick turned, just in time to see a giant, green skinned demon rush at him, and run him through with a-_

"Patrick, c'mon, get up we'll be late for orientation." Forrest proclaimed, shaking the Nephilim from unconsciousness.

"Huh? What?" Patrick muttered blearily as he snapped awake.

A dream…it had all been a dream. The lush jungle of his dream gave way to beautiful spring sunlight, and the soft while walls of his hotel room…and the concerned face of Forrest Law.

"You were having a nightmare or something. I was gonna let you sleep while I took a shower, but the way you were screaming I thought I'd be doing you a favor."

"Oh…thanks…thanks Forrest." Patrick panted.

"What were you dreaming about anyway?" He asked.

"Oh, y'know," Patrick tried to make a joke. "Being naked in class, falling off a cliff, and I think I was being chased by zombies to."

"All at once?" Forrest asked with a quizzical tilt of his head.

"Yeah." Patrick finished lamely.

Awkward silence ensued before Forrest broke it by saying he was going to take a shower.

Patrick sat in silence and wiped the sweat off his brow. He began to wonder about what the dream could have meant. It was common knowledge that Nephilim dreams could be considered prophetic…was this what was going to happen to him?

Was that green skinned monster the Ogre he was supposed to stop from being raised? And where was he exactly? Patrick's knowledge of geography didn't extend beyond the ninth grade class he had taken two years ago…but he was pretty sure that Japan didn't have any hot, humid jungles.

_Or an Aztec temple…_

And how did he know that the temple was Aztec? Unfortunately, history was never a favorite course of his either. Suddenly, Patrick seemed to remember last year in tenth grade Michelle Chang had come to his class to do a presentation about Native Americans, and South American civilizations.

Maybe Julia would know something about it…he could ask her.

"No, that'll be if I'm really stuck; but for now, let's see if this Nephilim can't McGuyver this on his own."

Patrick sighed at his own stupidity, it was times like these he wished he'd paid more attention in school, and hadn't coasted by on his athletic prowess.

_Well there's no use bitching about it now…stay frosty Pat, maybe they'll have a book on it or something at that Mishima school you're going to._

Forrest had left the shower, draped in a towel, and Patrick walked in…the bathroom was as steamy as a sauna…and as humid as, _the jungles in your dream…_

The Nephilim got undressed and stepped into the shower…the warm water felt wonderful on his cramped back muscles. As he ran shampoo through his hair Patrick's mind went back to his dream…where he had surely died, or he would have if Forrest hadn't woken him up.

Thinking about the sword in his dream, made him touch his stomach gingerly…there was no wound, no mind numbing pain…just skin, and the hard muscle of his abs underneath.

Patrick finished with his shower and walked over to the bathroom mirror, he wiped the steam off of it, and stared at his reflection, big brown eyes stared back at him.

"I'm not gonna die…one day I will, but that won't be for a long, long time…"

Cardinal O' Connell was right, prophecies were tricky creatures, and after his experience with them, he should have known that. Maybe the dream was meant to show what would happen _if_ Ogre had been resurrected. Maybe the dream was meant to be a warning to the Nephilim to stop the ritual before something like that would happen.

Right there and then, Patrick vowed to not let it happen…he would not let Ogre rise, and if he did, then he would devote everything in his power to making sure that the creature was sent screaming back to hell where it belonged.

_This would probably sound better and look more heroic if I wasn't doing this naked in front of a bathroom mirror._

Patrick smiled at that, brushed his teeth, and grabbed a fresh towel, and emerged from the bathroom ready to get dressed and face the day.

_New Scene…_

Julia Chang was frustrated.

The flight to Tokyo had left at 3 in the morning, and she was forced to sit next to a rather large man who had a disgusting gastrointestinal reaction to every bit of turbulence on the 22 hour flight.

Julia arrived at the airport only to have one of her bags missing (the bag that contained her Mishima High School calculus textbook), and the wheel had broken off one of her suitcases.

Finally, Julia's roommate was a young Irish woman named Anna Williams. If there was a complete opposite of Julia Chang…the Mishima Zaibatsu had found it. When Anna wasn't busy ignoring Julia; she was busy hogging the bathroom or making fun of her roommate's less then fashionable taste in clothes.

And the two had only been roommates for a day.

In the shower (which by some act of god Julia had managed to use) she had cried. She was tired, frustrated…and for a few seconds just wanted to go home. She had half hoped that her mother would be at this tournament as well; Michelle Chang would tell her just what to say.

Actually, Michelle would probably give Julia one hell of a lecture for flying to Tokyo and entering this tournament. Julia knew how Michelle felt about the Mishima's, and for her to go off so recklessly without consulting her…well, Julia knew that Michelle would probably ground her (something that had only happened to Julia twice in her life).

_Please be there Michelle…be there to lecture me…please…_

And now, Julia was here, at the orientation for the Iron Fist Tournament. She had conducted interviews, posed for press pictures, signed autographs, and now she was exhausted, both emotionally and physically. She had been discreetly searching through the crowds thinking that maybe Michelle would have entered…but so far, she hadn't found her.

"Who're you looking for?" A voice asked from behind her.

Julia gasped, and whirled around, obviously startled. Patrick Farenelli stood behind her, wearing a faded orange t-shirt, baggy jeans, and a pair of white running shoes. The t-shirt had the phrase "ABERCROMBIE" in faded white letters. Despite the bagginess of the jeans, they accentuated his muscular thighs, and the slightly oversize shirt, hugged his muscular chest just so.

"No one…nothing." Julia replied with lowered eyes.

"No…I could've sworn you were looking for someone…and since I'm the only other person you know here, I thought you'd be looking for me." Patrick responded.

"No," Julia said sharply looking at Patrick. "I wasn't looking for you Patrick Farenelli. Despite what your ego may think; no one thinks about you 24 7. No one in Tokyo thinks about you, and nobody in Phoenix thinks about you either."

There was a moment of silence, and Julia watched as Patrick's liquid brown eyes showed a glimmer of surprise and hurt. Julia felt bad for a second, but then she remembered what he had done to her in Freshmen year…and all the times he'd made fun of her, or barked at her in the hall…and then she didn't feel so bad.

"Damn Chang," Patrick said, as he clutched his heart and grinned. "You cut me to the quick."

Now, Julia started to feel bad.

"Patrick…I-"

Patrick backed up and started to walk away. "Listen, I know you're trying to find your mom. I…I heard you talking about it at IHOP. Um…if you need any help, just let me know, it's kinda my thing."

"Wait…what are you talking about." Julia asked in a frustrated tone.

"Good luck Chang…with everything."

And then, Patrick Farenelli blended into the crowd of fans and fighters leaving Julia feeling very much alone.

And very much like an asshole.

A/N: Okay, this chapter was a little hard to write, but now I know what I want to do so it'll pick up again…and don't worry, some of our favorite Tekken fighters will be making a bigger appearance soon! Please read and review!


	6. Chapter 6: Know Thy Enemy

Chapter Six: Know Thy Enemy

A/N: Okay, new update, gotta make up for last time lol…anyway, read and review please!

After the disastrous attempt at speaking to Julia at the orientation Patrick decided that he had to take out his frustrations on something…namely on something of a demonic variety.

Fortunately Tokyo did not skimp on anything demonic.

If Patrick Farenelli was a sadist, then he'd be in heaven.

Currently, the Nephilim stood atop a shabby apartment complex in a section of condemned buildings.

Patrick had been chasing a small cadre of vampires, three in fact. He'd killed the first two, and had been hunting the third for the better part of an hour now. He watched as the vampire, who could've been a body builder when he was alive, leap with the gracefulness of a cat from one rooftop, and into the fire escape of the building next door.

The creature climbed through the window as Patrick watched, letting the vampire get some distance. Fighting on a cramped fire escape would be tough, and, Nephilim, or not, Patrick wasn't sure he'd be able to survive the plummet if the vampire threw him off.

It was slightly cold tonight on this early spring evening, and Patrick dressed accordingly in a pair of baggy red basketball shorts, and a grey hooded sweatshirt; the shirt red "Sagebrush High Wrestling" across the chest.

A dagger was slung across his hips, and a few vials of holy water in his pockets, and the Nephilim as ready to go. Quickly, he leapt from his vantage point and flew through the night…his curly, dark tresses fanning out in the night sky.

Patrick landed on the fire escape with a grunt…the frail metal railing shook beneath him precariously.

"Whoa…" The Nephilim muttered as he regained his balance.

He had to remember that this was indeed a condemned building and one wrong move could send him plummeting to a spine shattering demise.

"Not the common way for a Nephilim to die…but still a way to die." Patrick said.

Carefully, he crawled through the open window, and found himself in a small, studio apartment. The building looked like it hadn't had any tenants in years, shabby furniture festooned the small room, and there were gaping, dark holes in the floor and the walls.

A vague stench of disrepair clung to the air, and with his Nephilim senses, Patrick could hear the constant scuttle of cockroaches emanating from the walls and various dark, shadowy recesses.

There was also the smell of drugs….particularly the acrid stench of crack; something that Patrick had never or would ever try; but had been to enough parties to know the smell. This place was probably used as a crack house as well, which meant that if vampires were indeed using this as a hangout then there would be a lot of dead drug addicts, or a lot of vampires.

Patrick walked on the balls of his feet and tried to step as lightly as he could, but unfortunately the building was so old that every step brought forth a creak or a pop that could he was afraid would (literally) wake the dead.

Leaving the studio apartment Patrick looked around and made his way down a narrow hallway and towards the elevators. Patrick walked into the shabby lobby, so far he couldn't sense any vampires, but he knew they were here…waiting.

The Nephilim kept his breathing controlled; inhaling through his mouth and exhaling through his nose.

Truth be told, Patrick was nervous. He hadn't fought many vampires before, and the prospect of facing a gang of them didn't particularly bode well with him.

"Don't think that way, you sound like a pussy." Patrick muttered to himself.

Nephilim who thought of death usually died early on…and Patrick intended on living. After all, he was the Nephilim who averted the Millennium Apocalypse, and he'd only been called 9 months before…no one thought he could do it, but he did! Surely he could handle a few vampires.

His confidence boosted, Patrick walked towards the ancient bank of elevators and absentmindedly tapped the call button. Patrick was mildly surprised to see the elevator doors creak open…revealing gaping black chasms where the elevators should be. The broken cables attested to the fact that the elevators had fallen away some time ago.

Turning from the elevator shaft, Patrick glanced in a shadowy corner at two piles of…something. He walked over to the piles and drew a gasp when he discovered that they were people!

A man and a woman lay crumpled together like some child's discarded rag dolls. They looked almost peaceful laying together. The tract marks on their arms attested to the fact that they were junkies; the bite marks on their necks revealed their cause of death.

"Vampires…" Patrick murmured.

He tried to look at it from a clinical perspective; after all, the life of a Nephilim was one of death, demons, and slaughter…but it was hard not to feel a pang of sympathy for these two, particularly when they only looked to be a few years older then Patrick.

He supposed that once he was a Nephilim for a few more years then he'd get used to death and dismemberment, but until then, dead bodies still creeped him out.

Patrick knelt down and gingerly touched the arm of the woman…he quickly drew his arm back in a mixture of shock and revulsion…the arm felt like ice! It felt as if this woman had spent the last 48 hours at the bottom of an icy lake.

Suddenly, with preternatural speed, the young woman's arm shot out and wrapped around Patrick's wrist. Her long nails dug into the flesh of the Nephilim's arm and pulled him close. Her eyes flew open, and when she grinned, a pair of sharp fangs slid down.

"No!" Patrick yelled.

He quickly broke the grasp, stumbled, and sort of crab walked backwards before shakily standing up. The woman rose and chuckled softly.

"I need a fix, and I hear Nephilim blood give an awesome high."

To Patrick's dismay, the second body (the male) rose, and stood next to his companion. Despite his fear, Patrick unsheathed his dagger, and dropped into a fighter's stance.

"Sorry," He began. "But I'm going to give you a bad trip."

The vamps snarled and lunged at him. The female collided with Patrick first. Using her momentum against her, Patrick locked his arms around her and flung her into the wall. A shower of plaster exploded behind her as she landed through the wall and into an apartment.

With the female temporarily incapacitated, Patrick focused on the male…who had closed the distance between the two of them pretty quickly. Before Patrick could react, he punched the Nephilim hard in the stomach, and followed suit with an uppercut.

Patrick was sent flying spinning across the lobby, and landing precariously at the edge of the elevator shaft. Before the Nephilim could stand, the vampire leapt on top of him.

"This doesn't look good for our hero." The vampire gloated.

"I don't think so." Patrick grunted.

Quickly he tucked his body to the left side, and locked his leg around the vampire's. Using leverage, Patrick flipped the vampire, and in seconds was straddling the creature.

"What…how…" The vamp sputtered.

"Did you read my shirt?" Patrick asked as he punched the vampire in the face. "Varsity wrestler bitch!"

Using Nephilim speed, Patrick grabbed his discarded dagger, and with practiced efficiency, decapitated the creature. He rolled off of it before the body exploded in blue flames.

That was the thing with vampires, when they died, they spontaneously combusted into blue flames. The fire didn't hurt, it actually felt cool to the touch, but Patrick still didn't like it.

Standing, Patrick remembered the female vampire, and he couldn't relax until he knew she was taken care of. As if on cue she leapt from her hole and came at Patrick. Her long, claw like nails swiping for purchase at Patrick's face.

Once again, he flung her off of him, only this time she was sent into the elevator shaft. The momentum jettisoned her towards a sharp, broken piece of metal in the shaft, and Patrick grimaced as the creature became impaled on the metal. She struggled to break free, but she erupted into flames shortly after impact.

The Nephilim stood still for a moment, letting his breath catch up with him.

Vampires were perhaps the saddest demons he could think of. Once a person was turned, a demon possessed their body; an evil, blood thirsty cruel demon. It may look like the person you knew, it may retain that person's memories, but it wasn't them…and it never was going to be. It was a demonic squatter who used it's host for their own selfish desires.

Just as Patrick was contemplating his next move he heard something from behind him. The Nephilim turned just in time to see a vampire (the one that he was originally following) burst through the wall and come towards him.

"Oh," Patrick began.

He couldn't finish his statement however, as the vampire grabbed, and slammed him towards the floor. Immediately, Patrick felt the floor give way, and the two landed on the floor below, and the first thing that Patrick heard was snarling…and the first thing the Nephilim saw, were about five vampires staring at him.

_New Scene…_

The Mishima compound lay in a sprawling, 150 acre forest, located at the base of a mountain. A Shinto temple lay in the middle, and the Mishima mansion was located fifty miles into the property. The compound was a paradigm of Japanese serenity and grace; it was built to have perfect harmony and _f'eng shui _with the elements around it.

The compound was world renowned for it's beauty, it was featured in various magazines and news articles as a mirror to another world, and another time. The compound was like a jewel…only a jewel with layers and layers of tarnish on it.

The Mishima Compound had a dark history…a history of dangerous occult practices, human sacrifices, and twisted, cruel genetic experiments.

And they were all done by one man.

Heihachi Mishima.

The owner of the Mishima Zaibatsu stood in a monitor room, hundreds of images played out in front of him…they were all of from different angles, but they all showed the same thing.

Patrick Farenelli fighting for his life against a gang of vampires.

Heihachi had thought of the idea…a sort of gauntlet for the Nephilim, and Dr. Abel had put it together. The vampires were more then willing to help; the promise of tasting the blood of the Nephilim was all the incentive they needed, and the discreet cameras set up in the apartment complex were allowing Heihachi to see the Nephilim's progress.

And he was impressed.

"There's a certain…elegance to his fighting prowess." Heihachi said.

Meanwhile, on camera, a vampire grabbed Patrick from behind…Patrick grabbed the creatures arm, and threw him over his shoulder. While on the ground, Patrick decapitated the vampire.

"He uses his brute strength to overpower his enemies…however, he shouldn't last long in the actual tournament." Dr. Abel added.

"We'll see…he certainly isn't a Baek Doo San; but he has a certain…elegant roughness about him that I enjoy watching." Heihachi said.

Patrick punched another vampire so hard that the creature flew through a wall.

"And the plan?" Abel asked.

"It will still be set in motion; he will probably last a few rounds in the tournament…but he will lose…and when he does we will abduct him and use him for the ritual." Heihachi replied. "After all, it's always important to know thy enemy." He finished with a grin.

"It looks like he finished our little test." Abel replied, pointing to the monitor.

Heihachi grinned and the two looked at eachother as if they were two little boys sharing a naughty secret.

"He is a strong one indeed…the perfect candidate for Ogre." Heihachi said.

_New Scene…_

Panting, Patrick left the building and stooped over to catch his breath. He couldn't believe that he survived them…five vampires in a cramped room (not including the two in the lobby)…he did it.

"Was there any doubt?" Patrick asked himself with a grin…a glimmer of his old self shone through with the statement. "Now…the hard part starts…school…"

Tomorrow would be his first day of school…and so, during the daytime he would be Patrick Farenelli, junior at Mishima Polytechnic high…quite the contrast from Patrick Farenelli the Nephilim; and even more of a contrast from Patrick Farenelli participant in the Iron Fist Tournament.

A/N: Okay, next chapter is the obligatory high school chapter! Okay, next chapter will feature Patrick's reactions to such fan favorites as Hwoarang, Xiaoyu, and Jin!


End file.
